


On The Flipside

by levitatethis



Category: Heroes - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Reality, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-05-18
Updated: 2010-05-18
Packaged: 2017-10-09 13:15:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,847
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/87890
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/levitatethis/pseuds/levitatethis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mohinder's self experimentation lands him in a Company cell. Eventually Sylar is sent to interrogate him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	On The Flipside

“You’re not hallucinating, Mohinder.”

The assertion does little to assuage the absolute shock that shoots through Mohinder’s body. He is still recovering, weeks later, from being woken up in the middle of the night and forcibly taken into The Company’s custody, held prisoner in a cell where he is analyzed and processed as a human petri dish for the power creating serum he developed and began testing on himself (curiously but naively) months before. Bandied about between withdrawal and overdose, he feels disconnected from his body (as if it is its own living breathing monstrosity) and ever so aware of every single thing that manifests from it. Trying to maintain is an effort.

Sylar standing in front of him, dressed in a black suit with a white button down shirt and black tie, his hair in a slicked back concoction of professionalism, nudges him into a tailspin that is painfully emphasized by the muted contrast he surely presents in the white pants and t-shirt uniform (with gray socks as the only accent of colour) assigned to all prisoners. Certain that this is yet another attempt to experiment on him, Mohinder looks beyond Sylar to the two-way mirror.

Catching the implication of his distraction, Sylar smiles and taps the side of his head. “There’s no one listening, I can tell. This is just going to be you and me for awhile.”

Keeping his eyes on Mohinder’s rather confused ones, Sylar walks towards the table at the center of the room and pulls out the chair, sitting down across from him. He makes a show of opening up the file he has been carrying, perusing the information on Mohinder that runs pages deep. With the security camera not working in this room he plans to take as much time as needed to get what he wants.

Angela had given him the file a week before. Despite being used to help out on a handful of Company initiatives he still calls cell #F87GG home—for now. With his abilities he could break out at any time but his own questioning wonder has gotten the better of him and, with the wealth of knowledge on so many Special people worldwide at his fingertips here, he wants to see how it all plays out.

Being ready for anything had not prepared Sylar for a file on Mohinder. And not just a recount of Chandra’s research continued by the dutiful son but a brilliant scientific breakthrough all his own. It is an accomplishment that Sylar admires with great awe (and pride, he always knew Mohinder would one day be at the forefront of a new frontier) but also unwavering trepidation.

Where Sylar sees himself and the other Specials, even those he has killed, as the natural progression of the species (a biological inevitability carried forth in those who were predetermined to do so), Mohinder has found a way to synthetically allow everyone—_anyone_—to imagine themselves as being of the same extraction. It is an affront to everything Sylar is. Just because Mohinder has the intellect and skill (_and luck_) to create such a leveling agent does not mean he should.

Frustration and anger had brewed in Sylar until he read further into Mohinder’s own notes detailing his self-experimentation (_Mad scientist_, Sylar had mused) and the powered discoveries (_incredible_) coupled with troubling consequences (_increasingly horrific_). A week into Mohinder’s stay Sylar was allowed to view security footage of experiments on him. He watched enraptured at the toll Mohinder’s work took out on his body and was flummoxed at the failure that was as big as the accomplishment.

Mostly he recalled endless conversations that had opened up his mind in a way no one else had ever done before (unrivalled to this day) and the tangent thought of what could have been, once upon a time, had there been slight alterations to the fabric of how they first met and were transformed together.

But what could have been is not an issue. It does not apply now. The table between them is always rotating and this meeting is yet another twist in the road. Sylar glances up from the folder and sees Mohinder eyeing him warily in disbelief. A little worse for wear, but since it is an off period for his grueling tests he looks improved enough from the mess of the previous week. His lack of equilibrium makes Sylar grin then clear his throat and, closing the file, rests back in his chair.

“This is…you can’t be…working for The Company?”

Sylar playfully wrinkles his nose at the question and says, “_For_ sounds so subservient. Let’s say we have an understanding.”

“A conspiracy of hypocrites is more like it,” Mohinder carefully rubs at the itch along his arms trying not to disturb the healing skin that barely hangs on. “I highly doubt they have your best interest at heart much like I know there must be some deeply self serving reason for you to be towing their line.”

“How are you feeling, Mohinder?” Sylar changes the subject to keep him off balance and thereby unable to hijack the direction of their conversation. “You’re looking a little under the weather.”

Mohinder glances at the file now lying flat on the table. “I’m sure it’s all in there, no need to placate me with meaningless conversation.”

The dismissive response is partially a ruse to keep Sylar talking and (_hopefully_) letting slip what The Company plans to do with him. Regrets are a cumbersome burden to shoulder. His discovery came hand in hand with one of his lowest points (being held hostage by the man now opposite him, unable to truly protect himself and Molly) and the upturn came at breakneck speed.

Theoretically such rapid progress would be of noteworthy wonder but retrospect has a way of removing blind spots and his shortcomings—self-experimentation with no control subject, retesting and re-injecting each ‘improved’ version of the serum, ignoring debilitating side effects, and lashing out at those who stepped in his way—were burned bright in his retinas as photographic negatives against his mind.

Having Sylar aware of all of this seems fitting as some sort of universal payback for losing his way in the same manner that he had accused Sylar of (and still believes to be true), with a gun aimed at his head.

_The line is drawn, the cursed is cast. The slow one now will later be fast. As the present now will later be past. The order is rapidly fading. And the first one now will later be last._

Mohinder dejectedly scoffs as the song tunelessly unravels in his head. He cannot tell if it is uplifting or a self-defeatist prophecy considering his presently dire circumstances. Sylar raises an eyebrow at him.

“But there’s nothing quite like hearing the mighty admit their own mistakes. All those pesky weaknesses; isn’t that right?” Sylar asks heavy with mockery at the backward parallel to what had unfolded between them in Mohinder’s apartment. Sylar takes the opportunity to emphasize the control that is resting in his favour.

Without warning Sylar telekinetically snatches Mohinder’s left arm forward and slams it against the desk while Mohinder lets out a strangled cry of pain. “What were you thinking?” Sylar demands. He travels his gaze along the marked skin and sees two old wounds starting to ooze a pus-like substance.

Mohinder tries to pull his hand back, to no avail. Trying to control his pain by calmly breathing he glares through watering eyes at Sylar. “I was thinking that to stop you meant time was of the essence.”

Sylar rolls his eyes and drops the invisible grip (prompting Mohinder to immediately cradle his arm and nurse it) saying, “I don’t deserve such an unwanted credit. _This_ is all you.” He leans forward and watches Mohinder until his judgmental gaze is returned. “Although I can’t say I’m all that surprised. You always did harbor such resentment for what you could never be—who you could never be in Chandra’s eyes and in your own. The risky actions of the desperate.”

“And you’re just bitter because you won’t be so unique anymore.”

“I _am_ special. I came by this naturally. It is my genetic calling. All you can offer is some knock off synthetic experience. I’m the real deal. You—others who use this _magic serum_ are playing house in other peoples clothes.”

“Who’s going to care?” Mohinder says and takes a modicum of pleasure in Sylar’s befuddled expression. “When everyone can have these powers who’s going to wonder about how they got them? Evolution, injection…No one is going to care that you were born with it when I can offer them a taste of it.”

Mohinder knows the words sound cold and far too harsh as they spill out one after the other. He does not particularly care for the extent of the theory he is suggesting either, but it is difficult to recall what his original motivations were in a purer form. In either case his goal now is to keep Sylar from beating him down.

“Obviously your employer doesn’t share your righteous indignation,” Mohinder says, continuing to play his hand but with a crack in his façade showing. “They’ve kept up the injections, using me as their guinea pig, putting me through…”

“You opened the door.”

They sit in stony silence as another unintended connection is added to their repertoire. Revelations such as this one bring about nervousness in Sylar. Keeping Mohinder at a distance comes from more than a declaration of Sylar’s singular existence. It works out his self-denial that Mohinder has come to matter to him. He would not use the word kinship (or maybe he would since it is the only one that applies) but he is conscious of the desire within for Mohinder’s approval.

He masks it well in cruel tones and scathing words but the inexplicable need to ensure Mohinder’s understanding still plugs away at him. Which only makes him want to pull Mohinder closer while taunting threats in his ear.

“Sylar?”

“Gabriel.”

Mohinder frowns. “Pardon me?”

Keeping an edge of authority while speaking, Sylar says, “They refer to me as Gabriel here.”

Mohinder sits back and regards him, most thoughtfully. “Okay,” he draws out unconvincingly then twitches up a tight smile. “Speaking of playing dress up, _Gabriel_, I take it that suit is part of the show?”

Sylar easily returns the jocular smile and says, “Unlike you with your, ‘I can’t be bothered to dress for the job attire,’ I like to project a certain air of professionalism so that there’s no confusion.”

“Still focused on the wrong things I see,” Mohinder gingerly folds his arms across his chest. “If it’s not a band shirt then it’s some all black comic book villain costume or a paint-by-numbers agent.”

Jutting his face forward, Mohinder scoffs, “Clothes don’t make the man.”

“I’m ever-changing. How I choose to present myself is an extension of that, a representation of my inability to be contained by outside forces.” Sylar says.

Mohinder nods at the room, indicating their surroundings. “That’s not the impression I’m getting.”

“I’m not just one thing,” Sylar argues, hating how defensive he feels at Mohinder’s stance. He expected Mohinder would present a formidable opponent, as usual, but there is a vulnerability that Mohinder brings out of him and he needs to tread carefully. “I’ve found a new direction, one that is so much more than what I accepted for myself before. I think the new threads work.”

“Gacey dressed up as a clown,” Mohinder raises his voice. “That didn’t stop him from burying bodies under the basement floor. You’re still a serial killer. The suit doesn’t change that.”

Mohinder finds peeling away at Sylar’s imperfect facade an intoxicating act of aggression. Whether he makes any long-term impact on Sylar or not, having a momentary upswing of control (or at least balance) is worth the pain that inevitably follows. Leading up to these confrontations trepidation trips up his steps but once in the swing of it, deflecting Sylar’s advances and tossing a few jabs back is (dare he say it) easy.

They move with the consistency of known expectations and (silently) welcomed challenges. There is no disconnect, as off-putting a fact as that is for Mohinder, but the most real of un-quantifiable bonds forged before they ever crossed paths. He should not feel it but he does and each strike delivered carries in it a return blow that forces him on his feet. He does not always see the shift in power moving the other way but anticipating it lessens the abject disappointment.

He sees a flicker in Sylar’s eyes and narrows his own in skeptical expectation. Sylar drops his right arm down and rests his left on the table, tapping his fingers. “Just like your prisoner wardrobe isn’t so much an affirmation of your scientific prowess but your pathetic attempt to prove yourself to a dead man—one who preferred me anyway.”

“First of all you know nothing about my relationship with my father, no matter what he may have shared with you so far away from home,” Mohinder says as he grips the edge of the table. “Preferred you? As if you were some adoptive son. Even before you were a killer you were assuming other peoples existences. Where are _you_ in all of this?”

“Right here,” Sylar says abruptly, his voice low and rumbling as he tenses his shoulders. “I’ve always been here. Watching, waiting, quiet as a mouse until my time came. Nobody, somebody, I have walked in two lives.”

He watches Mohinder’s expression of defiance falter and the first fidgety signs of personal uncertainty in his right hand as he presses the tips of his fingers into the table then relaxes. But Mohinder’s eyes shifting, ever so slightly, reveal his discomfort that runs deep. Sylar grinds his teeth and lets a stifled smile briefly grace his lips.

He slides back his chair and stands up. Pushing the bottom of his jacket back he thrusts his hands in his pant pockets and walks around the table casually, ensuring Mohinder’s undivided attention. Coming to a stop he stares down at Mohinder.

“Moving from life to life is done with such ease it would render even you speechless. I see where I am meant to go and take it.”

Sylar exaggeratedly sticks out his mouth and tilts his head to the side, raising his forehead as if a curious thought is passing through his mind. “Turns out it’s in my blood.”

Confused, Mohinder pushes back his chair and shifts his right leg over to the side. Leaving his left arm on the table he rests the right on his leg. “Of course, the watchmaker and the religious fanatic, grabbing life by the throat.”

“More like the missing brother in a super trinity.” Sylar walks towards the back wall, and turns to make sure Mohinder is looking at him over the back of the chair.

I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Sylar leans against the wall. “It was a bit of a surprise for me as well, but Peter and I are the only of our kind with such exceptional powers. It would seem our rivalry was naturally born.”

Mohinder’s mind, one of the few things he has managed to hold onto during his imprisonment, races like a flipbook connecting random bits of information to reveal a larger picture. Sylar smirks as realization dawns on Mohinder’s face.

“There’s no way…you’re not—,”

“A Petrelli? It would seem so.”

Mohinder looks down at the electronic anklet by his right foot, in bondage by what he can no longer control. It reminds him of misjudgments begat of little forethought which carry long memories and make little sense when deeper thoughts are applied. Sylar being a Petrelli all this time seems possible but there is something that nags at the back of his mind against this new fact, the words ‘bullshit’ and ‘misdirect’ spring to mind. Gazing back at Sylar, Mohinder regards his very proud expression and feels the need to get to the truth buried at the heart of this sudden confession. Knocking Sylar down a few pegs is a bonus.

“And who told you that?”

“Mommy dearest,” Sylar grins.

“Well then I definitely believe it,” Mohinder rolls the sarcasm swiftly off his tongue.

Sylar’s grin falls. “Is it really so difficult to believe I belong to one of the most powerful families?”

Mohinder shifts in his chair and puts his back to Sylar, clasping his hands on the table in front of him. “I think Angela Petrelli would tell you anything you wanted to hear just to make you fall in line.”

Sylar’s doubts over Angela’s admission had dogged his every step from the beginning. But with time he had found a way to accept it, without apparitions of his mother and father haunting him from beyond with his name sadly slipping from their lips. Being a Petrelli made sense, although it did not feel a natural as he professes. And to have Mohinder be so readily dismissive of it (Peter and Nathan at least had the gall to be disgusted right from the start) turns his stomach and he lashes out defensively.

He crosses the room quickly and, standing opposite Mohinder, leans forward and seethes, “And what does that mean?”

Mohinder hesitates at the dark pools that Sylar’s eyes have become. He wants to push this, he has to and Sylar’s moody countenance suggests he has hit a touchy point, but he also sees the glimpse of something unknowable in Sylar’s eyes. Mohinder swallows and says, “It means Angela’s hardly the harbinger of good news and you always seek outside validation to determine your worth.”

A few seconds pass then Sylar sends Mohinder flying back with a flick of his finger. He crashes to the floor and screams in pain. Sylar stands tall, saying, “I think you’re confusing my situation with your endless father issues.”

Mohinder rolls onto his front and perches on all fours, trying to get up, half cursing himself for forgetting how much worse the pain could be. He casts a grimace up at Sylar and staggers to his feet only to be hurled six feet back against the wall. Unbelievable pain shoots through every never ending in his body and tears bleed from his eyes. He muffles his pained whispers while wiping his eyes clear.

Sylar moves around the desk and sits on the edge facing him. It has been a long time since he has used his powers on Mohinder and though there is a natural rush that accompanies it, seeing Mohinder hurt, more so now by Sylar’s own hands, makes him second guess his actions. This is the second time he has resorted to the display of wounding powers meant to assert himself in Mohinder’s eyes, and it is the second time he has felt regret for the extent of his actions.

“I always knew I was special, Mohinder.”

“But you needed Angela to make you one of the family or my father to walk into your shop to believe it,” Mohinder says, breathing deeply as he makes his counter move and ignores the abrupt change in Sylar’s tone from attacking to pointed. If he has come this far he figures he may as well finish what has been set into motion. At the same time he can feel the altered cells that make up his body adjusting. He steps away from the wall and clenches and unclenches his fists in the meditative act of centering himself.

Reestablishing eye contact with Sylar he holds their gaze. “This incredible gift—it was part of you before my father missed it, before you began your killing spree and collecting, before you killed your mother. But you were too busy waiting for someone else to tell you that…and once it happened you did everything to prove it true. You’re so easy to read. So…predictable.”

Sylar cringes at the verbal attack and watches Mohinder limp back to his chair, gripping the top. Only a foot away from each other Sylar quietly says, “I was nobody before. Just a watchmaker.”

Mohinder leans towards him and says, “There’s nothing wrong with that—being a watchmaker or the son of one. I’m the son of a geneticist whose crazy theories turned a brilliant career into a joke. Before all of this—,”

Mohinder raises his left arm to the room. “You were special, Gabriel.” He pulls the chair out and sits down, looking straight ahead at the two-way mirror.

Sylar is unsure how to react, not only to Mohinder’s general sentiment of misplaced insight but the way he speaks his name, Gabriel, with reverence, not the ridicule he infused it with earlier. Mohinder’s ability to ricochet between confrontational antagonism and genuine thoughtfulness has always been a curiosity for Sylar, so much so that he still crave the way such choice behaviour keeps him guessing at the best way to retort, to throw it back at Mohinder to see what sticks and what wounds.

Sylar had wondered, during that winter chilled drive together way back when, what his given name would sound like spoken by Mohinder with the heartfelt emotion he gave to ruminations on India or his work. But now it sounds all too strange wrapped up in a smooth accent, too much like jeering ridicule of how he has fallen short in that one way. The truth packs a punch.

The battle for power that plays out during each of their meetings is like a favourite song in which every note is pitch perfect and captures the infinite originality that is their own tune. This time is no different and Mohinder sitting in stoic silence, his words being the last to hang unchallenged in the air (and thus feeling like an inarguable fact) gives him the well-earned edge for the moment.

When it comes to Mohinder, however, Sylar is always in the game and there is no time like being rendered temporarily dazed to kick back. There is a risk added though in pushing ahead with specifically calculated steps from both sides. The attacking onslaught does not boast lies, rather broken confessions best left unsaid yet trotted out anyway. And as belligerent as the hurtful ramifications are they also tie Mohinder and he together, irrationally, undeniably, perfectly.

It comes down to a matter of decoding the secret moves that guide each given round. Surprisingly he finds he is not in the mood for absolute emotional carnage at the moment but a very carefully laid out reality check—which should serve a very similar purpose.

“You’re a bad liar,” Sylar says. “You know full well that having a gift and not using it is not admirable but offensive. There _is_ something wrong with being only a watchmaker when so much more is written in my DNA. There _is_ something wrong with only being a bumbling professor when you hold the theoretical key to the next evolutionary leap. Don’t try to convince yourself otherwise.”

Mohinder stares at the two way mirror in front of him. Of course Sylar would be the one to call him out on declarations that lack conviction or validity. If, as he says, there is nothing wrong with who they had once been then why was the drive to seek more so innate? Why did the wrong turns that followed still feel more right than mistaken or insufferable?

With resignation Mohinder mutters, “Then I guess it’s a good thing my father was always disappointed and his narcissistic murderer cannot get enough of me.”

“It could have been worse,” Sylar muses looking down at Mohinder and, catching is questioning upward glance, adds, “Don’t you think?”

Mohinder returns the gaze steadily, uneasy at Sylar’s relaxed disposition. He pushes back his chair and lifts both arms up. Nodding down at his body he says, “Yes, it’s worked out pretty well for me so far.”

Sylar stands up and stares at the back wall then walks around the desk to stand in Mohinder’s sightline in front of the mirror. “Your drive has never been the problem,” Sylar says. “Your methods, however, are another matter all together.”

“A true scientist must be willing to take chances,” Mohinder spouts the traditional adage but with less conviction now than in the years and months that led up to his incarceration. “One must be willing to step outside of the known—,”

“You annihilated the known!”

Mohinder snaps his mouth shut but his eyes remain controlled and unblinking. He moves forward on his chair and rests both arms on the table, stretching them out to display them. He hangs his head and softly says, “You think I’m not reminded of that every single day? While I’m being prodded and subjected to tests that even I never fathomed possible, you think it doesn’t consume my mind? When I have the sense of mind to look upon my body do you not think I feel disgust at what I’ve done?”

Mohinder waits a thoughtful moment then looks up, “I have become that which I fear.”

Sylar observes Mohinder wistfully look away and the gravity of what has led to this interrogation, to the diversion in the road that crisscrosses their paths and put Mohinder in the chair that at one time only Sylar would have occupied, lights up in bold technicolour. Even when out of his comfort zone, Mohinder has always maintained an unwavering countenance. Right now, however, he is surprisingly vulnerable.

Sylar knows that haphazard powers course through Mohinder’s mangled body but that the electronic anklet, as electric shock therapy, works as the subconscious incentive to keep himself in line, with a stable heartbeat not giving rise to an adrenalin rush.

He exists now as a patchwork man, with threads loosened and unfixed square barely held together. He is easily at Sylar’s mercy and the power that knowledge entails makes Sylar’s decision all the more obvious. Sylar cocks his head to the left and listens beyond the two-way mirror behind him.

“Always so dramatic,” Sylar says, taking back control.

The derision in his voice surprises Mohinder for what comes across as blatantly clear, and as Sylar bends forward and raps his knuckles on the table Mohinder leans towards him and they strike a pose of conspirators.

“But not a lie,” Mohinder starts.

Sylar interrupts with a low voice, “I can change things.”

Cynically Mohinder narrows his eyes and he tries to get a fix on what Sylar is cryptically suggesting. Playing it cautiously Mohinder jerks his right arm into the air. “You’re going to fix all of this?”

Sylar twitches a half smile and Mohinder tilts his body to the right to look over Sylar’s shoulder at the mirror. After a moment he settles all of his attention back on Sylar.

Unintentionally, although it is just as likely that Mohinder’s subconscious is picking up the clues before his conscious state is properly caught up, he softens his voice and questions, “Why? How?”

Sylar offers no more than, “Because I can.”

Mohinder furrows his brow and a small smile graces his lips. “Methods are the motives for the action?”

Sylar contemplates him and with the tiniest shake of his head says, “A bit of the chicken or the egg.”

He gets a kick out of the quizzical bewilderment that permeates Mohinder’s features. Sharing personal feelings with Mohinder has come easiest in the puzzle edge tinge of double speak. When honesty was more forthcoming it had all been jaded by the dead man’s persona he had slipped into for safekeeping. This is the price Sylar finds himself paying as penance. He does not regret how he and Mohinder entered each other’s lives because in the brutal devastation is the undeniable fact that it was real, that it will forever scar them—_together._

No, he does not feel regrets but there are moments when he wishes their timing had not been such a cruel universal joke. His whole life he had not felt connected to any living, breathing person, and he had accepted that until—but then—an it was impossible to start from scratch (though he tried) and inevitably the crafted mask was ripped away.

In the wake of his true self came the constructed truths that he expected Mohinder to read into. And on many an occasion he has suspected Mohinder has made those connections well hidden behind his own self-imposed walled up expectations, a response to the outside world.

The chicken or the egg. Methods or motives.

The riddle is not completely without a clear answer and the noticeable shift in Mohinder’s attention to the table is all the answer Sylar needs (the only one he is going to get) that his reasons for helping are understood to be more than an attempt to go against The Company or string Mohinder along with false hope.

Thoughts spark at the speed of sound and Mohinder has to work twice as hard to maintain a level of acceptable calm or face the painful consequences. He rests his left elbow on the table, arm angled up, and props his head on top. With his right hand he traces invisible patterns on the table, mostly a circle within a two-by-two inch square space that surprisingly, given his focus, does not wear through the metal.

Sylar saying one thing but meaning or implying another is an old language for them but Mohinder has never been on the receiving end of such benevolence. It has been awhile since things were so incredibly tilted to one side—and come to think of it Sylar had not killed him then either (and Mohinder knows it had nothing to do with Peter showing up when he did).

Now here they are again and with Mohinder suffering the consequences of not seeing the full picture at the beginning of a life altering turn but instead of being stuck to the ceiling and dripping blood to the floor below, he is held hostage in a cell, leashed by a mechanical anklet and the betrayal of his own body, forced to be subjected to Sylar’s manipulative intentions. Except instead of taunting fear, this time around produces the first strains of hope, something Mohinder had ceased believing in.

With his head tilted down Mohinder looks upwards at Sylar who is staring back with a full awareness (as if he knows what is tripping over itself in Mohinder’s mind) that Mohinder almost smiles in response, for relief at not having to play so hard. Instead Mohinder tenses and looks back at the table.

_At what price? _Mohinder thinks—but he must have said it under his breath because Sylar telekinetically grips his chin and lifts his attention to him, meeting his gaze. To Mohinder’s eyes a thought flickers in the softening of Sylar’s eyes and a subtle twitch to his lips, but he sees he is mistaken—because his eyes are not soft but taunting and his mouth is actually quirked up in a smirk.

“Considering what you’ve managed to do all on your own, any price I’m putting on the table is not nearly high enough.”

Mohinder tries to yank himself out of the powered grip but his attempts are useless and only serve to amuse Sylar.

“Maybe I’d prefer to just stay here—,”

“Like this?”

“Like this. This is my problem and I’ll deal with it.”

Sylar utters an annoyed sigh at Mohinder’s proclamations of self-sufficiency and self-punishment. He should have expected this resistance to the offer of—truthfully he is not sure what the full extent of it entails. What he does know is that The Company is no place to call home. It only fits that mold for as long as one complies with its rigid and highly dubious rules. He has only agreed to live within the same confines out of curiosity for what Angela has placed at his feet and the suspicious wonder upon finding out that Mohinder is forcibly contained within the same walls.

But neither of them belongs here, not like this. Packed in cages and doled out for someone else’s gain, subject to someone else’s whims, this is not where their destiny is meant to be and if he is going to fix things he needs to get much more personal, _fast._ Sylar might not care for either of them under the control of others but having Mohinder under his thumb (even if it is only temporary) is always a welcome rush of excitement.

“Your denial is astounding,” Sylar releases the invisible grip on his chin and turns it into a shove of his shoulders. Mohinder’s motion backwards scrapes the chair across the floor a few inches and he stands up, so quickly that the chair falls back with a loud clang. Sylar stands back and telekinetically pushes the table that is between them to the right, slamming it into the wall.

“Why set yourself up for more disappointment?” Sylar stalks forward, moving into Mohinder’s space until they are breathing each other in and out. “Hasn’t dear Molly suffered enough?”

Caught off guard by the mention of the young girl whom he had tried so badly to protect—so _badly_ done—immediately raises Mohinder’s defenses. Considering Sylar’s part in Molly’s current living situation (far away from danger but also far from those people and places she cares so much for) his sarcastic concern for her mental health strikes Mohinder as cruel.

“Don’t you speak of her,” Mohinder says through clenched teeth.

Sylar needles further. “Unable to protect her, helping me instead.”

Mohinder pushes hard against Sylar’s chest and he is forced back with a delighted, ‘oomph.’ “Don’t you dare talk about her!”

Stepping back into his space, Sylar angles his head downward and keeps his eyes firmly on Mohinder’s, saying, “Then you ship her off and you _know_ that a part of her is thinking it’s because she’s in the way.”

“Shut up!”

“If she saw you now she would know she was right. Only part of it is about protecting her. But how can you admit you want to be me?”

“You’re a mad man. Absolutely out of your head!”

And yet you want to drag me up to the ceiling right now don’t you?” Sylar smiles knowingly, happy with Mohinder’s expected reaction. “You’d like to scurry about me so fast it would make my mind spin, all so you could squeeze my life out in the grip of one crushing hand.”

Mohinder’s anger is coupled with humiliation as Sylar’s eyes drag along his scarred arms. If Molly were to see him now she would not recognize him. She would pull back in fear, worse she would pity him and cringe from his closeness. Her eyes would grow wide with shock and her disappointment in him would be his complete undoing.

Mohinder holds still as Sylar leans forward, angling himself to look at the side of Mohinder’s face (noticing the deeply set scabbed lines that start at his temple and disappear beneath the hairline). Then Sylar pulls back and shifts slightly to peer at the other side of Mohinder’s face, very carefully observing the hardened scaled flesh that traces down his neck and across his back that is covered by his shirt.

“You’d frighten her more than the boogieman,” he whispers against Mohinder’s ear.

In a reaction too fast for even Sylar to comprehensibly anticipate, Mohinder snatches Sylar’s left hand at the wrist and yanks it upwards, snapping it loudly and clearly. Sylar cries out in pain and pulls his arm free. Fighting back the tears that well in his eyes he feels the bone reset and drives forward a force that sends Mohinder hurtling backwards—but Mohinder manages to get a hold of Sylar’s shirt in the confused panic and pulls him along.

They stumble to the floor and Sylar recovers first, getting to his feet and pacing around Mohinder who is groaning and lying on his back. Under Sylar’s watchful gaze Mohinder bends his arms and places the palms on either side of his head. In one smooth movement he flips himself up to his feet. Sylar gives him no time to recover before he grabs Mohinder by his biceps and pushes him against the wall.

“You’re so much like me,” Sylar mutters and he runs his eyes away from Mohinder’s to his pursed lips, tensed jaw and rigid body.

Mohinder glares, refusing to give him the benefit of seeing his worry. “I’m driven by the desire to help others, to use my work for good.”

“But you’ve gone this extra step,” Sylar returns his steely gaze, “to come after _me_. It didn’t turn out quite the way you planned—it never does—but let’s not pretend this serum has been used for altruistic reasons. You were driven by the same selfishness, the same personal calling to know, the same _hunger_.”

“Temporarily lost my mind.”

Sylar slides his hands up over Mohinder’s shoulders and gently but firmly cups his neck. “Don’t be like that. Don’t deny you’ve always felt this.”

“This what?” Mohinder plays dumb.

“Pull towards me. Your fascination is actually quite sweet…and appreciated, very much understood.”

“This from the man who keeps showing up in _my_ life, coming to _me_ for help. I think it’s you who finds it disconcerting to feel a pull towards me that you just can’t let go,” Mohinder keeps his voice steady and controlled.

Sylar pushes closer and for a moment Mohinder thinks he is going to—   
And his heart pounds in panic to fight—   
Excitement to keep still—

Then Sylar is cheek to cheek with him and quietly confessing, “I don’t deny it. I love playing with you.”

Taking one step back Sylar pulls Mohinder forward and tosses him into the air, hurtling towards the mirror. Halfway there he freezes Mohinder, sprawled awkwardly with a look of absolute fright at his predicament.

“Put me down,” Mohinder demands, wanting nothing more than to show Sylar who unalike they really are, even as truthful words burrow deep into his body.

Sylar smirks and listens for the heartbeats and footsteps that are closing in. Pointing his right index finger at Mohinder he twirls it around and adjusts Mohinder mid-air.

“Now!”

“If you insist,” Sylar says and removes the hold letting Mohinder crash to the ground. With another twitch of his finger he turns the chair upright and lifts Mohinder up on it. Then he slides the chair and Mohinder over to the table that is still off to the side.

A second later the door opens and two agents step into the room.

“Mr. Gray?”

“It’s fine,” Sylar says fully composed. “Doctor Suresh got a bit excited but I’ve managed to subdue him.”

Mohinder turns in his seat to look at Sylar over his left shoulder and offers him a curious look. Sylar straightens his tie and approaches the agents.

“He should be moved to cell #8B,” Sylar orders and glances at Mohinder who is turned in his seat, now looking over his right shoulder at him. Sylar adds, “It’s for those with behavioural issues.”

The thought of being sent to a higher security cell sparks panicked frustration in Mohinder. Unwilling to allow the final vestige of himself to be broken off he jumps to this feet to argue the new cell allocation but Sylar muffles him with invisible bonds that slam him back into the table, bending him painfully backwards onto it. In three strides Sylar is pressed up over him and, with a bruising grip to the back of his neck, Mohinder’s head is yanked close to his. Sylar whispers, “I’ve got you,” harshly and insistently.

Once the powered hold is gone Sylar stands up and backtracks four steps. The two agents rush to Mohinder and haul him to his feet, holding him in place by his arms. Mohinder stares at Sylar, the dizzying arrangement of extremes trying to decode in his mind. He tries to pull out of the agents grip but they are strong and he has to maintain—

The realization jolts him.

The electronic anklet has not gone off this entire time and he has certainly crossed the threshold of what is acceptable with Sylar. He looks down and sees the locked light go from no colour to neon green. He urgently twists his body to make eye contact with Sylar and is met by a tiny—masked—smile.

The agents start to walk him away and Sylar calls out, “Try to calm down. Once you’ve proven yourself to be receptive of our treatments we’ll begin the next round.”

Out of the cell and into the hallway Mohinder tries not to stumble as he looks over his shoulder again at Sylar who is a few feet behind him, hovering near the doorway to the cell, watching him.

Across Mohinder’s face unfolds his confusion then disbelief then uncertain understanding and he breaks away from Sylar’s glower to face forward again.

Sylar smiles to himself and checks his watch.   
 

**Author's Note:**

> Heroes Slash Awards  
> **Nominated for Best Drama Fic**


End file.
